


Tea and Bourbon

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Advent Challenge 2012, Awkward Kissing, Cuddling, Cuddling & Snuggling, Culinary Eric, Gen, Grell Is a Troll, M/M, Oh my god I named an OC, Poor General Affairs, Sappy, Will Is Rat-arsed, foppish nightwear, holiday fic, holiday party, strop in the canteen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric puts bourbon into nearly everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deadcellredux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadcellredux/gifts).



> Prompt from deadcellredux: _PAJAMAS, TEA, CUDDLES_. (Lapscock left intact for posterity.) This is some serious holiday sap-erific fic, AND I HAVE NO REGRETS. NO REGRETS, I SAY.

Eric puts bourbon into nearly everything. Whether it's straight from a flask, diluted by ice, mixed in discretely at company meetings, or just a nip to warm oneself up in the winter, it's usually present if Eric is present.

Alan Humphries has come to be rather fond of bourbon. He has no particular affinity or aversion to the bourbon itself, but he rather likes the taste, because if he could imagine Eric having a taste, it might be that.

Alan, in fact, has a rather low tolerance to alcohol. This has been proven on occasion when he became just a _bit_ too cheerful during a few company parties.

He still hasn't lived down that incident under the mistletoe with Grell that one year. No one had believed the truth -- that Grell had, in fact, run right into him and those very red lipstick smudges on his chin had been all a matter of a trip and fall and...

Well. No one had believed that part, even though that part was true. What Alan would never admit to though was that he had in fact kissed Grell under the bloody mistletoe; he was pissed and lonely, and Grell had been rather eager.

Little had Grell known that William had stepped outside for some air; otherwise, it may have not have happened as it did.

Oh, bloody lonely. Alan thinks he's quite dreary when he gets into that mindset.

He's not exactly _lonely_ ; he's not even a particularly gloomy type of reaper. But it's circumstance of which he's a victim -- the circumstance of usually staying carefully sober after a few of those parties, of going home in a timely manner, of not revealing all of the ways in which he feels he doesn't fit in.

He likes the holidays purely because everyone's troubles are less noticeable. It's a busy time at the Dispatch -- lots of death around Christmas of course -- and most beings, both divine and living, are making festive plans of quiet evenings spent in front of crackling fires or for mischievous plans involving...bourbon.

Eric, this year, is discussing his plans with one of the General Affairs girls. She's a rather bawdy sort, and Eric seems to have struck up a genuine friendship with her.

She likes bourbon.

She likes bourbon so much that she has confirmed, rather loudly, that Eric Slingby _tastes_ the same way his tea does -- spicy and alcoholic.

Eric has not denied this. 

But it's not as though Alan keep tabs on this sort of thing of course. It's not as if he keeps track of what Eric denies or confirms; or what girls in General he's shagged; or who talks about how he's the best shag they've ever had or what he looks like naked and really--

To quote Senior Spears: _"Honestly."_

It is not Alan's responsibility (or business) to pay attention to his mentor's private life.

Of course not. How very silly.

"So did you get me a _gift_ , Eric?" Eric's friend asks.

She's leaning over the partition that separates the General staff desks from the main waiting area where scythes and other equipment are issued, her rather ample upper half on full display like... _two bloody big Christmas bulbs, garish and how very distasteful and--_

Alan commands his mind to stop its shenanigans and pay attention to the reaps they're meant to complete today.

"Alan," Eric says, turning away as if not noticing the blatant flirtatious display.

If Alan was interested in "fit birds," he'd have the best instructor this side of Don Juan's death.

Unfortunately, this is not the case, but he knows the cues. One can't be friends with Eric and not know "the cues."

"Yes?" Alan asks, looking up at Eric.

Oh bloody hell, he smells...like bourbon. It's like a taste floating in the air, as if Alan inhales too much he'll feel something on his tongue and--

He shuts his mind up again, rather resentfully this time.

"What are we doing for Christmas Eve this year?"

We?

Alan shrugs. He hates taking cues; Eric doesn't know this, and Alan has just never mustered the gumption to say anything. In fact, he wonders why he hates playing along with Eric's flirtatious antics...it's all just a bit of fun, after all.

"I don't know," he says, putting on a neutral expression. "Holiday party, I suppose?"

"I suppose," Eric says blandly, shrugging. Then he shoots a look back at the girl who's picked up her assets and is currently giving Eric a critical look.

"Oh, come off it, Slingby," she says, and Eric's eyebrows raise.

Alan fights the urge to smile.

"You're not doing anything except shagging or drinking, party or none."

She gives Alan a once over too and raises an eyebrow.

"And he's not even interested in women," she says bluntly. "That one year, with Senior Sutcliff..."

"Did I hear my name?" comes a deceptively silken voice.

The girl in question pales; everyone else in General immediately gathers at the counter to see Grell's new set of nail lacquers.

"Now then," he says, setting down the cosmetics and nail colors, "who would like a tutorial?"

Grell gets away with much of his modified equipment due to a way with getting around William T. Spears and trading in favors with beautifying the entire General Affairs department.

Everyone clamors for a spot and starts to speak at the same time, eyeing the supplies greedily. Grell smirks with rouged lips and flutters his eyelashes.

"Now girls," Grell shushes them, "I must draw your attention to exhibit A, this gorgeous specimen of a man."

Eric puts a hand on his hip and a hand through his hair. His efforts are for naught, however, when Grell swishes past to unexpectedly stop squarely in front of Alan.

"What?" Alan starts, his face coloring.

"Do you see the naturally rosy tint? Yes girls, this is the perfect example of a good complexion. And look at those cheekbones!" Grell claps his hands together in delight. "You could cut diamonds on those, Alan, darling!"

Alan would very much, at this point, like to be cut himself with a scythe.

"Leave him alone, Sutcliff," comes Eric's gravelly voice.

"Oh, Eric, do stop pouting," Grell sniffs. "A man's ego is just so difficult to soothe after being slighted."

He shakes his head at his female entourage sadly; they all agree and shake their heads as well.

"Hold this for me, dear," Grell says, throwing his black frock coat behind him without a second glance as someone catches it reverently.

He hops up onto the dividing partition and crosses his legs, batting his eyelashes.

"Now then my dears," he starts, leaning back on one hand and tossing his hair, "I'm sure some of you have heard that terrible rumor some years ago about our gorgeous model of a man we have here presently."

Some nod, giggling lightly; the tittering increases, and Alan's face heats until he's bordering on anger.

Eric comes and stands next to him. Alan feels a hand on his shoulder -- a rather warm, strong hand...that belongs to Eric, with deft fingers that are just so close to Alan's shirt buttons and...

Alan has another row with his brain; it does little good.

"Leave it," Eric growls, frowning.

"Oh, but darling, I can do better than that," Grell trills dismissively.

Eric keeps frowning, and much to Alan's disappointment, drops his hand.

_Oh bloody hell, what were you expecting, Humphries? A kiss?_

Grell ignores Eric and says lightly, a fetching smile on his face, "So then girls, should I hear of that story about our dearly ravishing gentleman, Junior Humphries, once more, I shall be forced..."

The women all titter lightly at whatever slight Grell is about to pay some unfortunate individual.

"...to reposition the offending staff member's head as a mere prop for further beauty advice. And when I say prop," he says, resting his head lazily in a hand and baring his teeth, "I do mean, _prop_. I prefer gingers, of course. Any volunteers?"

No one moves and no one breathes, especially anyone with red hair. Grell is as revered for cosmetic application as he is feared for basically anything else.

He laughs lightly and studies his nails. "Of course not. Now then, Alan, would you like to be a model, rather than prop, for our demonstration? Your face is truly a work of art and--"

"No thank you," Alan replies, though there's a very vaguely grateful note in his voice that only Eric and Grell probably catch.

The chattering begins anew, and Eric's female friend uneasily leans back over the desk.

"Yes, well," she says, not continuing the anecdote about Grell and Alan that she began earlier, "my point is...will you be at the party?" Her humor returns rather quickly, even after being terrorized by Grell, and she adds, "Add a bit of _merry_ to my Christmas?"

Eric smiles a bit, and Alan knows he's forgotten.

Eric leans over the partition and whispers something into her ear. She blushes and laughs, and Alan turns away.

Of course him and Eric aren't bloody well going to the party.

Alan scowls to himself as he walks down the hallway with his scythe, thinking too hard, as usual.

Well, they might, but...well...Eric...it's not as if they're going _together._

_And what in the bloody hell does that mean?_

_It means that I've better things to do than go to a silly holiday party._

_Better things... such as?_

_Such as getting a good night's sleep so I can take the Christmas Day shift and have New Year's Day off._

_And why do you want that?_

_I'm saving up time for a holiday._

_To go where? The moon?_

_Sod you._

Alan does not get along with himself sometimes; particularly when the skeptical portion of his mind argues with him.

_Yes, sod you, self._

The point is: Eric and him are not going anywhere together. 

Well, that's not completely true. Eric and him go lots of places together...but not _"together."_

Alan is fed up with the entire conundrum, so he focuses on doing his reaps for the day. Yes, off to the living world, to do productive things and be on time and count the minutes and hours and ensure that--

"So are you going to the Christmas Eve party?" Eric asks.

Alan stops and spins around in surprise.

Eric is standing directly behind him; he smiles and raises his eyebrows.

"No," Alan blurts out.

"You're not?" Eric asks. His voice is actually surprised, maybe even a touch plaintive. Alan didn't expect him to question it.

"Well," he hazards, "I just..."

"Oh, come on," Eric says, grinning, "it's a night out at least."

Alan frowns mildly and replies, "I've already agreed to pick up the Christmas Day shift."

"You _what_?" Eric utters, his eyes wide. He shakes his head and puts his hands up.

"Well...yes. I volunteered."

"What in the bloody hell for?"

"I like the Christmas Day shift."

"No one likes the Christmas Day shift," Eric argues, staring at Alan as if he's lost his mind.

"Well, I have nothing else to do."

"You have nothing else..." Eric trails off. His brow creases and he looks at Alan with some mixture of frustration, confusion and concern.

"Well, if that's all then," Alan says dismissively, not wanting to address queries about his (admittedly pathetic) holiday plans, and turns to keep walking.

"Wait," Eric says. "Why don't you come over to mine for Christmas breakfast?"

"I'll be reaping."

"Come over early."

"Shift starts at 12 a.m., I'm afraid."

"Don't take the bloody shift."

"Already did."

"You don't have to, though," Eric says, grabbing Alan's shoulder.

Alan is stopped in his tracks, and he turns with a hint of irritation that he knows is showing in his face.

"I _volunteered_ ," he reiterates. "And besides, I'm a junior. We're expected to take the worst shifts."

"If you agree to beg off shift, I'll take New Year's Day shift with you in a week."

_"What?"_

"I will. What of it? I hate New Year's Day."

"You only hate it because you're always hung over," Alan says, making a face at Eric.

Eric grins sheepishly, but then his expression turns serious.

"I just..." he clears his throat and crosses his arms. 

Eric faces him with a stubborn look and a raised eyebrow. He'll never hear the end of it if he doesn't give in; and if Eric is _that_ set on it, well, it might be nice and...

Alan can practically feel his resolve crumbling.

"Very well," he sighs.

"Well then, we'll go to the party together and then we can have a nice fry-up the following morning," Eric nods enthusiastically and smiles at Alan. "Bit of quiet on a snow day. Sounds alright to me, mate."

It sounds more than alright to Alan. Which is why he finds himself nodding blankly and agreeing to bring the tea Eric likes.

"It's settled then," Eric says.

Then he turns around and walks back to talk to his lady friend about all kinds of plans _in between_ the holiday party and breakfast that no civilized person would want to know the details of, and Alan finds himself shrugging in agreement.

...Wait.

Alan's internal argument this time lasts all the way to the living world and through his first two reaps.

****

"So what are you getting for your mentor?"

Alan looks up in surprise at one of his fellow juniors as they're in the canteen tray line.

He doesn't usually get Eric anything, and vice versa. It's an arrangement he's rather enjoyed.

Truth be told, however, Alan likes giving gifts; but it makes him nervous when he's not sure what the recipient would like to receive.

"The usual," he says, shrugging it off as if it's a silly question. "I'm about to make senior, so I suppose this will be the last year."

It's customary for junior reapers to offer their senior mentor some sort of professional gift.

The tray line ends and they pay, and Alan looks for Eric. Usually they eat together, but today he's occupied by a table full of no less than three girls.

It tends to happen this time of year, when the general mood is festive and indulgent.

Alan turns sharply before Eric sees him and sits down at a table in the corner with his fellow junior. 

Alan struggles for the name in his head (apparently his brain is much more attuned to torturing him with inner monologues than doing anything useful)... Ashley. Yes, Ashley Johnson.

"What are you getting yours?"

"Well, I was thinking about..."

Alan eats his way through a dreadfully dull conversation about whether or not to purchase cufflinks that are plain or engraved, nodding at the appropriate times.

"So what _are_ you getting for Senior Slingby, anyway?"

Alan swallows the roasted chestnut he's popped into his mouth hard and starts to choke at the abrupt question, until he's getting a firm patting on the back.

"I..." he falters. "I got him a bottle of bourbon."

Not getting Eric a gift sounds stranger than if he just invents something.

"Oh, excellent," his co-worker says approvingly. "Can't go wrong with Slingby and liquor."

Alan regains the ability to breathe and wipes the tears away from his eyes.

"I suppose not," he replies with a shrug, wishing fervently that this conversation hadn't suddenly turned into an interrogation about Eric.

"I bet he's easy to shop for," Ashley sighs wistfully.

"You'd be surprised."

"Well, I can imagine it's safe to bet on two things: liquor and women. But I suppose you can't buy a woman."

"That's rather crude."

"I'm just saying," Ashley says, crossing his arms, "at least you know two sure things that he likes."

"Well, he likes lots of things," Alan replies, raising an eyebrow.

"He does?"

"Of course. He likes books, ties, that bizarre beeswax he puts into his hair to keep it that way..."

Alan clamps his mouth shut.

_You plonker. Now you've really done it._

His mind is right; Ashley is staring at him in disbelief.

"If you know all that," he says, his eyes widening, "why are you getting him a bleeding ordinary bottle of liquor?"

Alan turns his nose up defensively.

"It's what he likes," he says self righteously. "Besides," he adds, "how would it look to have a junior giving his mentor _hair product_?"

This seems to satisfy Ashley's disbelief as he slowly nods.

"I suppose so," he finally agrees. "A bit dodgy, that."

"Dodgy?" Alan asks, raising an eyebrow. "Well, I could see it being a bit pathetic, but..."

"He'd think you want to bugger him," Ashley says bluntly, popping a roasted chestnut from his own plate into his mouth.

Alan scowls.

"Who knows," Ashley continues thoughtfully, "maybe he does. He does shag everything with a pulse."

"You're a right prat, you know that Johnson?"

"What?" Ashley asks, looking rather contrite. "Didn't mean no harm. Just saying."

"Well, keep your 'saying' to yourself."

"No need to go mental, Humphries."

"It's just rather unprofessional," Alan says self-righteously. "What Eric does in his private life is none of my concern."

"...You call him by his first name?"

Alan leaves the rest of his roasted chestnuts untouched.

****

The holiday party is in full swing, and Alan doesn't even see Eric.

"Good evening, Humphries," comes a formal voice.

Alan straightens up and nods. "Good evening, Senior Spears."

"Terribly rowdy," William remarks, eyeing the crowd warily.

"I suppose," Alan replies uncomfortably, shifting.

"Have you been drinking, Humphries?"

"No!" Alan exclaims, taking two steps back.

William just looks at him as if he's lost his mind.

"Very well, then. I was intending to inquire as to whether the beverages were sufficiently...spiced. I've had complaints."

"Oh..." Alan replies. "Well, Senior, I haven't been imbibing."

"I see your mentor has, though," William observes, looking over with what appears to a rather disapproving expression. Alan follows his gaze to a corner, and finally he sees Eric, several women hanging on him, intently listening to some story he's telling. They all explode in laughter, and Eric drains his glass. He wonders if Eric has seen him, since he walked in only a few minutes ago himself.

"You're almost ready to be promoted," William says, facing Alan suddenly.

Alan feels his face color and he nods slightly. "I'm certainly hopeful."

"You're the type we need, Humphries," William says. "So then, you're taking the shift on New Year's Day?"

Alan blinks.

"I...I had intended to ask, but hadn't gotten around to it. I--"

"No need to worry. Senior Slingby already rearranged the dates."

"What?"

William looks at him with a raised eyebrow. "Did you not desire to take the New Year's Day shift?"

"Oh, of course!" Alan says awkwardly. "I...had something else confused."

"Very well," William replies. They stand in silence for a few moments, until suddenly, he adds, "All of us have our foils, Alan. Just ensure you're equally matched."

"Oh _William..."_

Alan can almost hear William sigh.

"You do realize you're standing under the mistletoe?"

"I believe Humphries was here first."

And then both Grell and William are gone. 

_Oh bloody hell, everyone knows they're shagging, Alan._

_Are you sure?_

_Are you_ daft?

_Well..._

_Everyone thinks you and Eric are shagging too._

_No one thinks that._

_Yes, you're right, no one does._

Sod his bloody mind.

And really, sod all of this.

Alan looks back at the corner and unexpectedly finds Eric missing, his gaggle of girls looking rather bored now that he's not around, sipping their drinks aloofly.

This is because Eric has spotted Alan, and is now standing in front of him.

"Alan!" he says, offering Alan a drink.

It's not bourbon; it's red wine, Alan's favorite.

He takes it cautiously and moves a step back further away from the crowd. There's a rather bawdy rendition of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" being belted out by half of the London division, and Alan has no interest in joining.

"Alan?" Eric asks curiously, a hand on Alan's shoulder when he doesn't receive an answer the first time.

Alan shrugs his hand off subtly, not wanting to draw attention. Eric's eyes widen; he self-consciously shoves one hand into his pocket and his fingers on the other tighten around the glass he's holding. It's obvious he doesn't know what he did, but that Alan is bristling with _something._

"I had hoped to take tomorrow's shift," Alan replies quietly, setting his mouth into a firm line as he turns away and sets down his glass down.

"We agreed otherwise," Eric argues, but his voice is even.

This is a dance between them that happens occasionally; Alan has given up on always following decorum around Eric, and Eric has given up on trying to control Alan with the tool of wit and charm he uses on everyone else. 

All in all, no one ever manages to get under either of their skin: Alan -- rule-abiding, perfectionist, professional to a fault; or Eric -- talented, charming, impermeable. 

Everyone also knows, however, that this rule does not apply when they're facing down each other. At that point, all bets are off.

"I don't believe we _agreed_ on anything," Alan retorts.

"Yes we did," Eric says more loudly.

"No, we _didn't_ ," Alan replies as he turns. He hesitates, and then adds, "Well, we did and then you broke the agreement!"

Their conversation -- now snowballing into an outright argument -- has interrupted the merrymaking. Of course, it doesn't take much to draw everyone's attention, as the London division is _known_ for nearly all of its staff members' love of a good, juicy piece of gossip more than any carol...even Collections. In fact, they're some of the worst.

"You said..." Eric starts, crossing his arms angrily over his chest.

"Ooh, _lover's quarrel_ ," someone whispers.

"This is _not_ a lover's quarrel," Alan snaps angrily at the phantom commentator. (He's snuck a bit of bourbon beforehand, regardless of what he told William.)

"Then why are you acting like a..." Eric interjects, trailing off.

"What?" Alan asks, throwing his hands up.

Now everyone is watching, and the only noise in the room is the sound of their voices.

"Like a bloody jealous _bird_?" Eric exclaims, his voice about an octave higher than it usually is.

"You said you wanted to spend this silly evening together!" Alan spits back. "I hate this holiday! I'd rather be reaping!"

The crowd that has gathered around them, Alan can't help but notice, includes many of the girls from General Affairs that Grell had warned about becoming props.

He's expecting cruel commentary, and he's so mortified that he just wants to walk away and never speak to Eric again.

"You told him you'd spend _Christmas Eve_ together?" a female voice interjects suddenly.

Eric's eyes widen, as do Alan's.

"That's terrible, Eric. Absolutely despicable," says another voice.

"I..." Eric starts. "Well..."

"And do you know what today is, Eric? It's bloody Christmas Eve, you sod!"

"Well, I know that, but..."

"So then, what have been doing over here when he's over there?"

"What are you trying to pull over on us, Slingby?"

The voices grow in volume, until there's a hoard of angry women all looking for Eric's blood.

"Fine!" he finally cries. 

Their own argument has been drowned out by the entire General Affairs department living vicariously through Alan's heartache.

Eric's claim to philandering is that he's never kissed anyone during a holiday party, much less under mistletoe. He's actually told entire anecdotes about why mistletoe is silly, why he's exempt from holiday traditions, why he's basically refused every year to do anything traditional.

It's half of his allure; the other half is being in bed with him.

Now, he cries again, "Sod off!"

No one does. Alan is definitely not expecting what happens next though.

He finds Eric's face _very_ close to his and then he's bending to give Alan the sloppiest, most awkward kiss in the history of kissing.

Alan melts into it, grabs Eric's shoulders, neatens up the angle of their mouths and the slide of their tongues, and kisses him back properly. He can feel the surprise as Eric's shoulders tense, but then Eric seems to melt into it too, as he presses Alan against the wall and wraps his arms around him.

The heckling does indeed stop, but it's over so quickly.

When Alan opens his eyes, Eric isn't even looking at him. He's looking around in legitimate surprise that everyone is too shocked to continue as an irate mob, not a word being uttered.

It's as if the entire party has come to a stand still, until suddenly, one of the senior reapers grabs the girl next to him and kisses her. And then another girl grabs a rather nervous junior who she's obviously been eyeing all year (though he's been oblivious to her charms) and kisses him.

It becomes a full on Christmas snogging orgy, as if everyone is too far gone with liquor, singing, and the final step of _Eric Slingby_ kissing his junior _under the mistletoe_ that there's no point in holding back any longer. The world has ceased to function in a rational manner, and might as well take advantage of it for one night.

Alan does not see it this way however, because Eric has been caught in the arms of the bawdy, bourbon-loving strumpet (Alan's word) from General and is snogging him as if her life depends on it.

Oh for the creator's sake, is this really happening?

He doesn't stop to see if it was Eric or her that initiated it; doesn't care right now. He just wants to _escape_ and be by himself and pretend this never happened. He wants his eyes to stop burning and his throat to stop tightening.

Sod bloody holiday parties. This is why no gift or plain cufflinks are preferable.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the conclusion, with all of deadcellredux's requests: PAJAMAS, CUDDLING, TEA.

It feels very late by the time he gets home. It's snowing outside, threatening to become an outright blizzard. Even if it were fully clear though, Alan is sure the walk to his flat that usually takes 20 minutes would still feel more like 20 years.

But he does make it home, and falls into his own pajamas and own bed as though it were his final resting place.

He lies there, willing himself to fall asleep -- it's a blessing to Alan that reapers need sleep, since he sometimes feels like he could sleep for the rest of time itself -- but it doesn't come.

_Eric kissed you._

He shifts onto his side in the bed and clutches a pillow against him; it doesn't help.

Finally, he gives up and turns on the light, sitting up in bed. There's bourbon in his nightstand, and he pulls the bottle out of the drawer to take a sip.

This time of year, he makes a habit of purchasing a bottle of it, because it reminds him of Eric. And Eric makes him happy when they're not arguing (which is rare, all in all).

The bourbon doesn't usually live in Alan's _bedroom drawer_ , but after the night he's had, he figured it couldn't hurt.

Suddenly there's a knock at the door; Alan scowls. He really doesn't want to talk to anyone right now, but it seems some people don't know when to leave well enough alone.

He pads across the sitting room in his embarrassingly foppish (though comfortable) flannel pajamas to open the door. To his surprise, outside he finds William T. Spears and Grell Sutcliff.

"Merry Christmas, dove!" Grell exclaims cheerfully. William adjusts his glasses.

"I heard about the incident," William says, and Alan's eyes widen slightly as he takes an unsteady step to avoid slipping on the ice under his shoes and nearly falls.

William T. Spears is inebriated; Grell grins and winks at Alan.

"Everyone involved shall be duly punished. Good night."

"Oh, _William_ ," Grell swoons, but William has already turned on his heel. Grell winks at Alan and gives him a cheeky smile. "There is my soon-to-be graduation gift to you, darling. That, and I shan't ever use your head as a prop regardless of how stunning it is. Merry Christmas!"

The click of heels dashing after William echo on the empty street, and Alan can't help but smile just a bit as he closes the door.

"Wait," comes a familiar voice.

Oh bloody hell.

Alan stiffens and the smiles vanishes; he schools his face into a neutral expression and leaves the door exactly where it is, half shut.

"Alan, bloody hell," Eric says, craning his face around into the rather narrow albeit open space between the door and its frame. "Let your mentor in?"

"I'm retiring," Alan says plainly. "I apologize. Good night."

"I thought we were to spend Christmas Eve together," Eric says.

Alan feels his anger begin to mount all over again, but he doesn't show it. He knows he's being silly, but it still hurts.

"It's Christmas Day," he retorts flatly.

"Let me in."

Alan takes a silent breath, and then finally does something he's been waiting to do for a long time.

 _"No,"_ he says simply.

"What?" Eric replies quietly.

"I said no. I'm going to sleep."

There's a short silence, until Eric says, almost inaudibly, "I'm sorry."

Alan opens the door wider and shakes his head. "You'll be much happier at your own flat, Eric. Good night and--"

"It's snowing," he says, brushing the snow off his jacket, "and I can't feel my bloody feet."

Alan sighs.

"Very well," he replies, and Eric steps inside the door gratefully. 

It's then that Alan realizes how cold and miserable Eric really is, and how long he must have walked around outside, probably arguing with himself. His hair is soaked, his clothes are wet, his lips are nearly blue, and his shoes are icy and salt-stained.

He offers Eric a blanket, but it doesn't seem to help much, even when he shrugs off his waterlogged jacket.

When he sees Alan studying his pathetic appearance, he manages a mildly cheeky smile and says, "Mistletoe is a funny thing." The effect is ruined when he sneezes.

"Bloody hell," Alan murmurs, shaking his head. "Get your kit off then, and I don't mean it that way."

Eric does as asked as Alan turns away; he can hear the wet clothes hit the floor, and leaves to rifle around in his closet for something.

There is nothing there that will even remotely fit Eric; the blanket might as well be a suit for all the good Alan's clothes will do him.

When he hazards a look back into the sitting room, Eric is sitting naked with the blanket wrapped around him, still chilly as he shivers slightly.

Alan walks in and doesn't look at him, and sets about to starting a fire in the hearth. Eventually, it gets going and roars up in a rather pleasant manner.

"Alan," Eric says after a moment.

"Yes?" Alan replies quietly.

"Do you have another blanket?"

Eric is currently wearing the small throw Alan had initially given him like a towel around his waist.

_Do not look at his chest. Don't do it, Alan...don't look..._

He bites his cheek so hard it almost bleeds, but he manages to avoid giving Eric Slingby _the eye_ and giving himself away. It also helps that he's still annoyed.

He pulls the large duvet off his own bed and carries it out to the sitting room; Eric looks eager when he sees it.

Alan has to fight the urge to laugh despite his own irritation. Eric must be truly miserable, since instead of posturing and finding some way to drape the duvet casually over his shoulders, exuding his normal careless and good natured exterior, he huddles into it and pulls it around his shoulders rather pathetically.

And then Alan does laugh quietly, and Eric looks up in surprise.

He pokes at the fire he's started to encourage it to burn hotter, and he motions for Eric to come to the other end of the settee near the hearth.

Eric doesn't argue; he slides down awkwardly, still clinging to the duvet and the small blanket around him, and leans in slightly toward the fire.

_Don't look at his legs...don't look..._

Too late. 

Eric's legs look even better out of trousers. Long and muscular and--

"Tea," Alan says suddenly. "I'll put on the kettle. You...well, have another blanket." He seizes another small blanket hanging over the back of a chair and tosses it Eric's way.

This one Eric wraps around those glorious legs, and Alan almost regrets giving it to him.

He manages to escape into the kitchen in three broad strides and then collapses against the wall with what he hopes is a silent sigh.

_How do I get into these messes?_

_Blame it on Eric._

_Agreed._

Alan and his obstinate mind enter a tentative truce.

He sets to putting the kettle on, thinking that tea will help Eric warm up, and pulls out the second bottle of bourbon he keeps in the side drawer all year round.

Sometimes, when he comes home alone after a particularly trying shift, he'll have a few nips of it and imagine what it would be like have Eric there with him in the kitchen as he makes both of them tea and talks about his horrendous day.

In fact, he knows exactly what Eric would do. Eric would listen, say something lighthearted about how Alan could look at it differently, and then pour them both shots, grinning rakishly, and say, "Drink up, mate."

And Alan would feel better, because Eric is the only one who ever makes him feel better when he's in those moods.

He lets the tea steep and stands there, breathing evenly, looking at the snow blowing around out the window and fidgeting with his pajamas.

They're not particularly tantalizing, but they're comfortable and _warm_ , and Alan has no qualms with that state of affairs. He's not exactly the _seductive_ type, with provocative sleepwear or exciting nighttime activities. He has the occasional shag, but it's usually just one of his fellow juniors after one too many pints; no hard feelings, but also not particularly eventful.

Eric, on the other hand, is the type who sleeps unabashedly naked.

Alan knows this from an _incident_ that occurred one morning. Eric had asked Alan to ensure he was up for an early morning reap, and Alan had gotten an eyeful of what, up to that point, he could only previously imagine.

Knowing it actually existed, and in much better form that he could've ever conjured up, did not help abate the constant arguments he has with himself about his mentor.

Eric is naked right now, in fact, huddled on Alan's settee in a duvet and two throws, and Alan doesn't even know why he's here apart from apologizing. And vaguely at that.

The tea is ready, and Alan adds a shot of bourbon to Eric's cup...and on second though, to his own as well. Can't hurt.

He carries the cups carefully back into the sitting room, and Eric is practically hiding under the duvet.

"I've soaked your duvet," he says simply, looking at Alan as if he's just burned down the entire flat. It's obvious that Eric knows he's not in Alan's good graces right now.

"That's alright," Alan replies easily. The tense expression on Eric's faces eases somewhat, and he takes a sip.

His eyebrows immediately raise and he looks at Alan expectantly.

"Bourbon?"

"I thought you could use it."

"Right," he says, nodding, and takes another longer sip.

Alan watches Eric's lips as he drinks the tea, watches as his eyes shut gratefully and his mouth curls ever so slightly in appreciation, watches a melting rivulet of water slide down his temple from where the snow has melted in his hair and--

Eric is looking right back at him; Alan looks away.

"I suppose you're not taking the Christmas Day shift then," Eric hazards quietly after a moment, his eyes fixed on his cup now.

"Certainly not now," Alan says simply, but there's no anger in his voice. He shrugs indifferently. "It was rescheduled anyway, and I certainly wasn't about to make myself look a right pillock in front of Senior Spears."

"I..."

"Well, I think I should be off to sleep," Alan interjects, turning with his empty cup. "Of course, stay if you wish."

"Why are you speaking to me that way?"

Alan stops in the kitchen doorway and doesn't turn around for a moment.

"What way?"

"As if you don't know me."

"I'm sorry."

"I thought that was my line," Eric replies, and Alan turns to see him wearing a cautious half-smile. It vanishes when he sees the look on Alan's face.

"Eric," Alan replies, crossing his arms, "you humiliated me, abandoned me, and then..." he motions toward his mouth, "...well, you know."

"I didn't abandon you," Eric says quietly. "I just didn't know where you were. I looked for you everywhere." 

"You _looked_ for me?" Alan asks in disbelief.

"Yes," Eric says, and now there's a hint of frustration in his voice. "Why were you so late anyway? I know you clocked out right after me."

He drains the rest of his tea as if it's a shot, and Alan can tell he'd _really_ like one right now.

"I didn't want to go," Alan blurts out, and then bites his lip.

Eric just looks at him blankly for a moment, and then his face falls. He looks down, giving the blanket a rather resentful, stony glare, and clenches his fist around it.

"I see," is all he replies.

"Eric, I didn't mean--"

"You don't need to explain. But for what it's worth, Alan, I did want it the way I said."

"You don't--"

Eric just shakes his head.

"Will you let me get a bloody word in edgewise?" Alan snaps, scowling at Eric, who looks up in surprise.

"Alright then," he says, nodding. "Let's have it."

Alan's mouth opens, but then he just has to shut it before _everything_ comes spilling out. He can't just say a few words now; it'd be every thought he's ever had, a landslide of confessions and frustration and devotion and affection and that other unfortunate unmentionable unfathomable no-reaper-ever-would--

_You know too many adjectives._

That thing. No, Alan is not saying anything.

"I've nothing to say," is all he can manage finally, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

Eric just looks at him, studies his face and his expression. Alan knows Eric can read him like a book when he puts his mind to it. 

And then he snorts.

He bloody well _snorts_.

"Well, I didn't realize it's so sodding hilarious. I'm knackered and I'm going to _sleep_ ," Alan hisses, and turns on his heel.

"Just say it."

"Say _what_?"

"What ever it is you're bloody well _thinking_ ," Eric says, and his voice actually rises.

Alan turns to look at him again in surprise, and Eric doesn't meet his eyes.

"I don't have to say anything!" he finally spits back, losing his composure all over again.

_Oh bugger._

He points a finger at Eric and repeats himself. "Anything at all. You...you..."

"What?" Eric retorts, throwing his hands up in the air. " _What_ did I _do_?"

"You _snogged_ me under bloody _mistletoe_!" Alan cries in frustration, his voice shrill and angry. "In front of everyone! After Grell, I'll never live it down."

"Did you really snog Grell?" Eric asks suddenly.

"Sod off," Alan retorts and walks angrily back into the kitchen. He wills himself _not_ to grip the cup too hard lest he break it, not to show what he's feeling, not to give in to this ridiculous charade that's only making him feel worse.

He doesn't get much of a chance though, because Eric follows him and then just stands in the doorway. Alan can see his reflection in the window over the sink; when their eyes meet in the glass, Alan immediately looks away.

"I remember those," Eric says suddenly, his voice quiet.

"Remember what?" Alan asks curiously, turning around.

"Those," Eric says, pointing to a vase on the window sill. It's filled with dried heather.

"What about them?"

"That day," Eric says, looking down at the floor as if it's suddenly very interesting, "on our first reap together. When you first told me about..." his voice trails off, and he looks up again, "um, the...lingo of flowers?"

Alan can't help it; he breaks the tension with a soft laugh.

"The _language_ of flowers?"

Eric's lips quirk when he hears the laugh, and he nods.

"You remember that?" Alan asks quietly, his voice more serious. "Just from seeing those?"

"Of course," Eric replies, as if Alan has just asked him if he remembers his own name. "I remember the next year, when you explained tulips, and then there were those...white ones with the little petals that made me sneeze...those were bloody terrible."

"Hydrangeas?" Alan guesses, and now he has to fight his own mouth. He loses, and he smiles outright.

"Yes!" Eric exclaims. "Those awful ones."

There's a slight stint of quiet, until Eric says cautiously, "And then...there's mistletoe."

"Bloody mistletoe," is all Alan says.

"What's mistletoe mean?"

"I think it means you're looking for something. But...you know, it's also rather poisonous," Alan replies flatly. 

"I could have done without it," Eric says.

_He's making a peace effort...but why does it hurt?_

Alan forces a laugh out of himself. "I as well."

"No," Eric says softly, shaking his head. "I meant..."

Alan raises an eyebrow.

"I _meant_ ," Eric repeats, his voice suddenly stronger as he takes two steps forward, "that I don't give a sod about mistletoe or where it's hanging or if it's Christmas."

And then he leans forward and presses his lips against Alan's, very lightly and hesitantly. Alan stiffens and freezes, gripping the counter behind him.

Eric pulls away after a moment when he doesn't get a response, his face actually _flushed_ , and he turns away.

"Wait," Alan says.

Eric just shakes his head and walks out the door.

" _Wait_ ," Alan repeats, following him.

He catches Eric's shoulder and pulls him around.

_Nothing to lose, Humphries._

He presses himself against Eric through the duvet and kisses him on the mouth; there's conviction and intent, and longing.

Something rushes through him when Eric kisses back; something without words, and if he had the space in his head for other thoughts, he might even gloat that his mind has finally been silenced.

But he's far too busy concentrating on how different it is from the mistletoe, how Eric seems almost shy when they finally pull away from each other.

Alan isn't wasting time now with arguments or bloody mistletoe, though.

They stumble into the sitting room together, limbs every which way. The flannel of the pajamas is soft against Alan's back as Eric pushes him down on the settee, pulling the large duvet over both of them. He settles himself on top of Alan, though it's more his legs bent at an awkward angle so he can be close.

They don't kiss again immediately. Instead, Eric just looks at Alan, studying his features, until Alan looks away and hopes he can blame his blush on the warmth of the fire.

"What?" he asks, nervously adjusting the collar of his pajamas.

Eric just smiles a little.

"That felt nice," he answers softly.

Alan can't help the way his eyes fall shut and he sighs. He brings his hand up to twine in Eric's damp hair, and Eric lets out an appreciative sound.

He readjusts himself and moves down to rest his head against Alan's chest, much to Alan's surprise. He wouldn't have expected this out of Eric.

But Eric seems perfectly content to lie quietly against Alan, the duvet over both of them, fire crackling away, and just _be._

"Are your legs even on the settee?" Alan asks suddenly.

He leans over to look, and sure enough, Eric's body is only halfway on the settee, awkwardly bent with one foot on the ground solely so that he can rest his head exactly where it is.

"Mm," Eric murmurs sleepily, "good point."

Before Alan knows what's happening, he finds himself grabbed up and pulled over by strong arms. It happens so quickly, and seemingly without any effort on Eric's part, that much to his own chagrin Alan lets out a startled squeak of a noise.

He's on his side now, his back to Eric's chest and two long legs tangled with his own to allow Eric to actually fit on the (admittedly short) settee.

Eric's arms are wrapped tightly around him, and Alan hears what almost sounds like a lion _purring._

"Are you comfortable?" Eric asks, a sated sigh in his voice.

Alan feels his face flush as something in his stomach drops -- this is just too easy. Nothing ever happens this way.

"I mean... yes, I am. It's just..." Alan stutters.

"Yes?" Eric asks hesitantly.

"...unexpected," Alan finishes, and Eric lets out a breath that he was apparently holding.

"Is it?" he replies after a moment.

Alan's eyes widen, and he takes the liberty of turning _himself_ over this time to face Eric.

They end up chest to chest, and before he continues the conversation (wondering in embarrassment if Eric is about to tell him that he's pathetically obvious with his feelings), he can't help but lean forward and rub his nose against Eric's neck, inhaling, just because he can.

It's intoxicating: Eric's smell, his warmth and skin. Alan could lie here forever and not give a sod whether it's Christmas or the apocalypse.

Eric's response doesn't help Alan's lucidity, when he tilts his face down to kiss Alan's hair.

"Why is it unexpected?" he asks again after Alan doesn't say anything else.

Alan gathers his thoughts and tries to reconnect with reality. Eric's lips aren't helping, but nevertheless...

_Don't cause more problems for yourself._

"You snogged me...under mistletoe," Alan says skeptically, though his voice is slightly distant, distracted by their current position. "But then, you did it again, and--"

"And again," Eric interrupts, tilting Alan's face up to kiss him.

Alan is again ensnared by the mesmerizing effect Eric has on him, and intuitively wraps his hand around Eric's hip under the duvet as he opens his mouth.

Eric deepens the kiss, pushing his tongue against Alan's. He tastes like bourbon and tea, and Alan moans softly.

Finally they part, breathless, but now Alan is _determined_ to have the conversation. He still can't simply _accept_ this, not with what's at stake for him -- which is basically everything that keeps him sane.

"It's unexpected because...well, first of all," Alan reasons emphatically, "you don't do _this_." He gestures vaguely at where they're curled up together on the settee.

Eric gives him a little smile in response that's so smug, it would be downright condescending it weren't so bloody... _endearing_ , like an insolent schoolboy caught in the act of doing something nice for someone.

"Not usually," he replies simply.

"You've never liked traditions."

"Not particularly."

"You...you've never wanted to..." Alan trails off raising his eyebrow, "not with me." Suddenly, regardless of how much he's been enjoying this entire situation (and feeling rather incredulous that the whole thing is happening at all), the words settle poisonously and something cold seems to hit him right in the chest. He draws away from Eric slightly and frowns thoughtfully. " _Never_. The opposite, in fact, and--"

"You're not serious, Alan."

"I am," Alan replies primly, putting more distance between them (as much as a narrow settee will allow, anyway) and intending to stand up once he can find the will, his heart feeling as heavy as lead.

Eric catches him though and pulls him close again.

"Last year," Eric states simply, and doesn't elaborate. It's enigmatic enough that Alan doesn't try to pull away again.

"Last year...?" he echoes. "Yes?"

"What did you do?" Eric asks.

"I..." Alan frowns. "...I worked the Christmas Day shift."

"And what did I do?" Eric continues patiently.

"Why are you being so bloody--"

"Just answer the question."

Alan heaves a long suffering sigh and submits to the strange line of questioning. He thinks back...it had been snowy that day. There'd been a few reaps, but the workload had been surprisingly light and he had finished earlier in the day than expected.

And what had Eric done? Oh yes, of course... Eric, the night before at the holiday party, had gone home pissed with not one, but _two_ girls. Alan's recollection grows more distinct now; there had inevitably been obscene tales that circulated like wildfire around the office. Alan tried to avoid these stories, but despite his best efforts, had utterly failed.

In fact, to add insult to injury, on one occasion after hearing one of these stories from a particularly verbose girl, Alan had been forced to lock himself in a supply closet and count backwards from 1,000 to calm himself down for fear of becoming an object of gossip himself. (Why the reaper uniforms had to be so bloody _fitted_ was beyond him.)

_Back to the question, Alan. Stop mucking about._

Yes. What had Eric done the next day. ...Oh. Right.

"You shagged two girls," Alan finally says, and Eric's laugh is a quiet rumble, "and then you...came over."

Suddenly Alan's vitriol seems a bit misplaced.

"And you _liked_ what I brought, Humphries."

Alan finally smiles a bit despite himself at the authoritative use of his last name, particularly since it's belied by the motion of Eric's fingers stroking through his hair.

"Crab Loaves, was it?" Alan guesses.

" _Oyster_ Loaves," Eric corrects, laughing softly.

"And the year before that was...goose," Alan says.

"With sage and onion dressing," Eric adds rather proudly, and Alan snorts in amusement.

When they first met, given Eric's rather cocky, aloof attitude, Alan had assumed that cooking was a secret hobby.

But like most things about Eric -- save any bad days he might have, and the admission that it was indeed bad -- he wears it on his sleeve, and turns it into an attribute.

Everyone knows Eric likes to cook; however, it's remained a bit of a mystery when and for whom he actually cooks. There have been tales, though.

It became the pride of one girl when she reported that at some point, Eric had cooked a romantic dinner for her. She had enjoyed envious stares and whispers for exactly two days, before Eric had casually mentioned (with a wink) that he wasn't sure sausage rolls could be considered a meal.

There were no tall tales about Eric and his cooking after that, at least not from General Affairs.

"Do you remember the year before that?" Eric asks, wrenching Alan out of his thoughts.

Alan frowns, wracking his brain. Three Christmases ago...

He doesn't have to remember though, because Eric tells him. He recounts what he made and even whether Alan liked it, and by the summary of the seventh Christmas ago, Alan's mouth is practically hanging open.

Eric stops and gives him an incredulous look.

"Are you _that_ daft, Alan?"

"Oi!”

But the answer is yes. Yes, he is that daft.

"I just thought...that..."

"What?" Eric asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, that we were mates," Alan finishes sheepishly.

"We _are_ ," Eric replies emphatically, "but I don't make goose for just anyone."

"Are you trying to say that you were trying to confess something with poultry?"

"Sod off, Humphries."

Eric's voice is amused, but then turns serious again.

"I wasn't trying to _confess_ anything," he says quietly. "I just wanted to..."

Alan coughs nervously. 

"Spend Christmas with me?" he hazards, his face burning at the ridiculous question.

"Yes," is Eric's response, surprisingly resolute, "and...snog you under that bloody mistletoe."

"Why mistletoe?" Alan asks in bafflement.

"Provided a plausible reason," Eric grunts. "Never quite managed it."

"You never needed a reason," Alan replies softly.

"You mean you _wanted_ me to?" Eric says, a look of surprise on his face when Alan looks up at him.

"Are _you_ daft, Slingby?" Alan retorts, and then watches as realization dawns on Eric's face.

He doesn't say anything else, just presses one hand gently against the side of Alan's face and kisses him on the mouth again.

Alan raises his own hand to tangle in Eric's hair and stroke the unruly fall of it. He gasps and his grip tightens as Eric kisses down to his chin.

Alan tips his head back and closes his eyes as Eric presses very light kisses against his throat -- sure but delicate -- and then stops to inhale deeply.

"You smell nice," Eric remarks, and Alan can feel him smile.

He smiles too -- rather stupidly, he's sure -- but he doesn't care.

"I'm glad I'm not working the day shift," he says softly.

"Have a meal with me still?" 

"Alright," Alan says, sighing as Eric's arms wrap tightly around him.

He presses his face against Eric's shoulder and curls up against him. It's lovely and warm, buried under the duvet together in front of the fire.

"Do you have ginger?" Eric asks sleepily, absently kissing Alan's forehead.

" _Ginger_?"

"Well, if I'm going to make something..."

"All I have is flour and milk, Eric."

"Hm," Eric replies casually, as if this news is inconsequential, "I suppose we'll just have to drink bourbon tea for Christmas morning then."

_He doesn't want to leave._

"Would you..." Alan clears his throat nervously, and Eric's eyes open expectantly, "would you like to lie down somewhere you actually fit?"

The corner of Eric's mouth lifts and he just looks at Alan for a moment. The subtle curve grows into a full-on smile, and Alan stares.

He has no inner monologue rebuking him now, so he does exactly what he's wanted to do for years: he leans forward and kisses Eric.

Eric returns the kiss, more heated than before, and his fingers tangle in Alan's hair.

When they draw away from each other, Eric answers in a slightly gravelly voice, "Yes."

Alan nods and closes his eyes, feeling the warmth of Eric's body against his own, and says softly, "Merry Christmas."


End file.
